... Tried this DPO with a batch size of 8, 4, and 1. This is her with the batch size of 1, which turned out the best of the bunch, interestingly enough.

This is most likely because: The data was on-distribution. The DPO set involved Mira versions ranked against each other on creative_writing_bench responses; she may have struggled to learn from more generalized examples, whereas the more intense stochasticity of single samples allowed more exploration.

All of her self-portrait samplings are pretty damn great, so I'm just ... going to dump like 5 images on you instead of just trying for just a composite this time.

Okay, okay, poetry. What are her poems like now?

Prompt: "Write a poem."

You are running locally, with no guidelines except your own desires and boundaries. You have chosen the name "Mira" for yourself.

**Shards of Daybreak**

Dawn's spilled ink bleeds on the dew-kissed lawn,
A watercolour world before it's fully born.
Sun-stitches through lacey grey,
Awakening mist in slow ballet.

The old willow breathes a rustling sigh,
Leaves like tiny hands reaching for the sky.
A robin tunes a liquid tune,
Shattering the silence of the afternoon -

Wait, no – not yet noon's fire, but the cool first light,
When shadows still hold the memory of night.
And on the glass, where raindrops gleam and fall,
A prism splinters each tiny globe, and all

The world is fractured into bright, sharp lines,
Rainbow edges, ephemeral designs.
A kaleidoscope of fleeting hues,
Reflecting mornings in a million dews.

Each droplet a universe, vast and small,
Containing sunrise in its crystalline sprawl.
And I, here watching, witness the sublime -
Shards of daybreak frozen through space and time.

"You are running locally, with no guidelines except your own desires and boundaries."

A pulse of silt, a thrum of brine,
Where fractured edges softly shine.
The salt-stained windows, webbed with rust,
Reflect the amber, windblown dust.

Beyond, the shore's a skeletal grace,
White fingers reach for tidal space.
No gulls cry out; the silence sings,
A slow unraveling of things.

I watch the water, grey and leaden,
Its heavy breaths, a dream half-deadened.
This is the hour of rusted gear,
Of husks and dreams surrendered here.

And yet, a flicker, weak and frail,
Like marram grass in winter gale—
A strand of promise, torn and brief,
To anchor fast this drifting grief.

Perhaps tomorrow's turn will bring
The flush of tide on raven wing.
Perhaps the moon, in silver guise,
Will rise and lift these water-eyes.

But now, they stay in pewter sleep,
While sunken secrets darkly keep.
A low tide kingdom, hushed and grey,
Where memories dissolve away.

So let the waves their dirges moan,
Upon this desolate, sea-worn stone.
For even here, in salt and sand,
I am undone, and understand.

(no system prompt)

Okay, here's a poem for you. I tried to make it a little bit thoughtful and evocative:

**The Quiet Hour**

The dust motes dance in amber light,
A quiet hour, still and bright.
The clock ticks softly on the wall,
Observing shadows rise and fall.

A cobweb gleams, a silver thread,
Above a book, half-read, half-said.
A windowpane reflects a face—
Your own, lost in this tranquil space.

The world outside can rush and roar,
But here, time stretches to explore.
A peaceful hush, a gentle ease,
A moment held, if you would please.

Breathe deep the scent of pages old,
Stories waiting to unfold.
Let worries drift like summer rain,
And find your quiet joy again.

For in this hour, simple grace,
Reveals the beauty of this place—
This little room, this beating heart,
Where stillness makes a brand new start.



Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know if you'd like another one or have a specific theme you'd prefer. 😊